To live, one must evolve into a flood outside the scope of men,
To become a woman curling courage through her hair
Or a night breaking into dawn. To assume an asylum in one's body.
Perhaps death is a dichotomy and life is an analogy,
Existence scrawls action from our tongue without a prior notice;
A perfect proof that we're just a pen in God's hand.
A child is born in the sunrise
Without a clear sketch of what the nightfall holds for him.
Father said everyone is just a wanderer in this place,
And that transition is a course between life and death.
How do I get to know which one to master first?
Yesterday, a boy borrowed the symmetry of his lost father
To carry the stacks of stones life hauls on them,
Perhaps he too has mastered the art of transiting
Into something suitable for this kind of storm.
A year ago, men sourced histories for knowledge sake
Today, men are dissolving into histories
Without a clear view of what this life is transitng into.
It's speculative to say that transition is a means to an end,
When a boy in a bright cottage can only feel darkness by imagination,
And what is life if not cascade of situations
Breaking into series of changes,
Changes that borrow glints to veer gloom.